We used to be friends
by Ali The Tulip
Summary: Started as an Unbound challenge. WIP. Grissom and Sara, brooding and trying. Chapter 4 up.
1. Default Chapter

**Summary**: Sara's mind is not a tidy place, and Grissom decides to grow up.

**Timeline**: around two weeks after Bloodlines.

**Feedback**: Do be brutal, by all means. In fact, I'm humbly asking you to. Feel free to flay me alive. Be polite and constructive, I'll thank you. Flames will be mocked endlessly and very publicly, unless original and funny. Like that ever happens.

**A.N**.: Unbetaed, un-anything. Blame it on the excellent wine that deserved better, the pickles that didn't, and my empathy for people capable to think out the fun of _everything_.

We don't need no stinkin' word limits.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sitting in the emergency room lobby, Sara could sense a distinct shift in her relationship with her supervisor.

There was a time she thought they were friends first and foremost and above all. Shit happened, they became strangers. Or maybe she'd realized that Grissom out of his lab, Grissom on tour, was very different from the guy who supervised the night shift and loathed bureaucratic crap the way she loathed fungus of any kind.

She didn't know if the best relationships were based on friendship, but it certainly couldn't hurt. She'd had a lot to think about in the past two weeks, and one thing was clear: she wanted him in her life.

There were things she had control over, and then there were things she couldn't just _make_ happen. The AA echoes were funny in a truly uncomfortable way.

"Are you okay?" Duh. He's scowling at about two dozen people in the ER lobby because everything's just peachy.

_I am Sara Sidle, genuinely concerned for my friend/supervisor/whatever._

Lack of sleep bred inattention, lapses of concentration, random lust attacks and humiliatingly brainless internal monologues.

"I'm fine". Sure he was. What with the future bruises and the possibly cracked ribs. Oscar material, he was not.

Grissom sounded as exhausted as she felt. Did it even matter anymore, what their fucked up interpersonal dynamic was projecting that week?

They cared about each other, and it was very possible that nothing romantic would ever occur. This moment, coming off a double shift after a confrontation with a suspect prone to psychotic outbursts, had been the first time in years the "problem" didn't seem to matter.

Loving him, simply for who he was, was easy, and everything else required too much energy, emotional and otherwise, at the moment.

She drove him home, all the while resolutely ignoring parallels in her rambling mind, before going back to the lab. There were reports to write, a hierarchy to figure out in absentia.

_Life goes on, da da dum..._

She was humming Eminem. Cyrus would have laughed his ass off. That night, she scowled at Catherine like she hadn't in months.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Catherine called daily, with professional updates and gratifyingly little prodding. Warrick had dropped by once, bearing a tape of televised "Celebrity Poker" and casino power play gossip.Sara had signed a get well card sent by the lab personnel. _Get a grip, Gil. Self pity and bitterness are so becoming._

Worst case scenario? He'd pretend to be oblivious, she'd scowl, and they'd be back to status quo at some point in the past year. _Risk vs. gains, Gil._

He grabbed his coat.

"I hope you didn't drive."

"I took a cab."

She opened the door wider as he was starting to move forward, and just like that, he was inside her apartment.

"How are the ribs?"

"I'm grateful for the many varieties of painkillers out there."

"Yeah."

Her place was messier than he would have thought. The kitchen seemed fastidiously clean, but journals, magazines, books, remotes and various gadgets were lying around everywhere.

The expression on her face reminded him of the way she approached teenagers, or the elderly. Careful, guarded.

_Ouch._

"Would you like something to drink?"

"I'm fine, thanks."

"So..."

"Yeah... I wanted to talk to you about..."

Deep breath.

"Sara, are you happy at the lab?" _Chicken._

Her matter of fact response distracted him from the mocking imp on his shoulder, the one that sent him images of breakfasts in bed and hours spent on discovering just what his mouth could do to her. For her.

"Sure. The team... we're good at what we do, the solve rate is through the roof, and we're one of the best equipped facilities nationwide."

"No. I mean..."

_It's worth it._

"You've seemed sad, lately. And overworked, even for you. Is there, is there anything I can do?"

"I'm fine, Grissom."Reassuring smile nr. 25 firmly in place, she looked like she was placating her supervisor. Not exactly the reaction he was going for.

His right arm was lightly hugging his midsection, his left was burrowing into his jacket pocket, and his feet were shuffling towards her. Slowly, his right arm uncurled from his middle and reached for her hand. Fragile as a bird, twitchy and so warm.

"No. I meant, are you- Are you okay?"

Her left hand didn't grab his, but it didn't move away either. Her right arm was rising, skimming past his ribcage, her hand landing softly on his sternum, her eyes focused on what seemed to be his nose, of all things.

"Yeah. I really am."

Reading the skepticism off his face, "Just... one thing at a time. But honestly? I'm fine."

"I was thinking of San Francisco, 1996, and realized it was almost a decade ago," he blurted out.

"I'm thirty three, we're at war with Iraq again, and they've filmed a remake of Psycho. I know what you mean."

Slowly, her hand fell away.

"Sara... "He had to clear his throat. "Are we going to be okay?"

Her eyes darted to the side, her hand stiffened in his grip.

"There's... I feel... like there's this heap of history and... that'll weigh down anything we'd ever... do... together. At this point, I'm so clueless as to where we are, or whatever... I have no idea what I'm saying."

At least they seemed to be talking. Well, she was. More or less.

"But yeah. We'll be okay."

Suddenly, she looked terrified. Her eyes were darting all over the place, and she'd started to shuffle her feet.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

What was he doing here? What was she saying?

He had bags under his eyes, he sounded exhausted and looked every day of his forty nine years.

_No groping, Sara. No arguing, either. The man is stoned and injured._

"I'm glad."

She just sighed. Cryptic as usual. She'd call him a cab, and if he remembered anything tomorrow, they'd talk about it or they wouldn't. _The things you can control and those you..._

_Whatever._

"Go home, Grissom."

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

TBC, possibly. The only muse who bothers with me unabashedly screams for porn. What say you?


	2. Ch 2

**Disclaimer:** I can't believe I forgot to do this before. I don't own CSI or the characters. They belong to CBS and Alliance Atlantis. The title of this fic was ripped off from the Dandy Warhols song.

**Important:** I was going through some of my old favorites and realized that one of the lines in the fist chapter echoed a plot device used by Laura Katharine in one of her stories. That was entirely unintentional; I was thinking of Fight Club and Janel Moloney's take on "perky" on the West Wing. Apologies, and no harm intended.

**A.N.:** Thank you very much for the reviews. Once again, I encourage you to be brutally honest.

* * *

Halving the painkiller dosage kept the edge off the pain and his brain functioning, for the most part. But he was getting tired, Sara was looking at him with worry and compassion, and he felt talked out.

„You need to get some rest. Those only heal if you stay horizontal," she said, squarely meeting his eyes.

So he gave her a small smile and went home.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

In the lost hours of the morning, between exhaustion and unconsciousness, when his mind finally slowed down, thoughts of Sara would inevitably seep in. Sara humming in his shower, rummaging through his refrigerator, skimming through his journal collection, complaining about the couch, running her fingers through his hair. Her skin, her smell, the small of her back, her neck, the sound of her voice moaning his name.

_Get a grip, Gil._

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Sara didn't believe in destiny, but some things clearly weren't meant to be forced. There was only so far she could push. Ever since she'd moved to Vegas, every attempt at making. things. happen. on a personal level had blown up in her face. High time to try something different.

She was telling Greg about the intricacies of lifting a fingerprint from a fragile plastic film when her phone rang.

"Sidle."

"Sara, it's Grissom. I need you to do me a favor."

_Business it is._

"What do you need?"

"Catherine is tied up in court all morning and there's a pile of paperwork I need to sign today. She left it on my desk. Could you drop it off after shift?"

"No problem."

"Thanks, I appreciate it."

"Sure. See you later."

Huh. He'd sounded matter of fact but friendly and she was looking forward to seeing him.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Come in. You hungry?"

"I'm fine, thanks. Where do you want me to put this?"

"Just drop it on the counter. Sure you don't want anything? The cantaloupes are really good." The offer was accompanied by a rare, disarming smile.

_He's bored. My God, he's like a kid._

She was disturbed by how utterly adorable she found it. Grissom was homebound and wanting company, so she stayed and told him about Greg's progress, about her current case, and listened to his remarks on hands-on training. They drank coffee and she let his thoughtful squint and earnest enthusiasm warm her heart.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

It had been thoroughly shitty year. Or two. Disastrous, horrible, deeply depressing. She could wallow all night.

Caught in an explosion on the way to asking out the guy she'd been drawn to for years and who happened to be her boss; talk about karmic debt. How many harmless rodents had she killed in a past life?

For endless moments, she'd believed Greg was dead. She'd been shell shocked, but had apparently put up an Emmy worthy front, because nobody had stopped her from taking her shift that night. So she'd pulled her gun, asked Grissom out, run herself into exhaustion and started to pretend it had never happened.

She refused to think about Hank.

Cyrus' funeral had been beautiful and she'd fought off the futility she'd felt at the sight of the coffin by working a triple shift. Grissom grew a beard and mutated from a shut off version of himself into a complete stranger. Sara kept clocking in overtime.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Driving to work, looking at her reflection in the rearview mirror, she thought of the Debbie Marlin debacle.

_It wasn't what he said. It was his voice._

She doubted he even remembered his own words, considering the state he had been in. He had sounded so resigned and defeated; too shocked to process what he'd meant, she'd drawn blood while biting her lip to stop herself from going in there and just wrapping her arms around him. His sigh was the saddest sound she'd ever heard; an echo to her own loneliness.

She'd gone home and cried sitting on her kitchen floor. Then she'd picked herself up, decided to get over it and realized that it had been all about him. There was nothing she could do or say; Sara had her own demons to defeat.

Shortly after that, at the most inappropriate time possible, sexual frustration had kicked in full force. Hank's betrayal had shaken her self confidence so badly it had put her off the whole dating ritual for a good long while. She did not want to date some random guys and suppress her yawns on a series of boring first dates; she wanted what was right in front of her, and she couldn't have it. She had started to be careful of her every movement and facial expression around him; the fact that he'd suddenly started to assign them on the same cases on a regular basis wasn't helping.

She grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and settled in the break room to wait for the rest of her shift to arrive.

She missed sex, and she missed it a lot. Hank had been fun and attentive, but...

That particular spark, the thing that set her nerve endings on fire and took her out of her own head, it just hadn't been there. She'd had relationships with fantastic sexual chemistry before, which was surprising, considering how difficult it was for her to trust a man enough to let go properly; she'd never had such an intense connection with a man before sleeping with him as she had with Grissom. In addition, they had plenty of chemistry and their pheromones were constantly in uproar when in the same room. Sara wondered what it would be like to finally have him in her bed after all these years, this serious man with his dry sense of humor and all that gentleness he so rarely had an opportunity to show.

All jokes about sexual peaks aside, there were times when she wondered about his hands, his voice, his lips and how they'd feel on and all around her. Grissom was as far from judgmental as it got and constantly looking to learn and experience something new. Did he approach sex the same way? Or did he tend to stick to what he knew he liked? She'd bet her iPod they'd never get bored. There was nobody she trusted more not to hurt her physically; they were both curious minds who loved to tease.

The possibilities were infinite. She sighed.

_The sexual profile of Gil Grissom, version 75._

Sara looked up from her slouch on the break room sofa. Shift would start soon. She self-consciously stopped peeling the label off her water bottle and threw it in the trashcan.

* * *

**P.S.: **No real porn, I'm afraid, but the characters have sex on the brain. I should probably tell you that I have no clue what I'm doing and a very blurry idea of where I want to end up. Want to try the adventure with me? 


	3. Ch 3

**Disclaimer:** CSI belongs to Zuicker &Co., Alliance Atlantis, and CBS. As far as I'm concerned, Gil Grissom and Sara Sidle should belong to William Peterson and Jorja Fox, but nobody asked me.

**A.N.:** This chapter brought to you by "Bloodsport", by the Sneaker Pimps. Apologies for taking so long to update; things come to me in bits and pieces, and I've already started the next chapter.

Still unbetaed, all mistakes are mine.

**Feedback: **I'm still amazed there are people actually reading this. Thank you for your kind words, and please feel free to nitpick and clobber me over the head with anything you dislike.

---------------------------------------------------------------

She hadn't called him on his visit to her place, somewhat loopy and confused. It was puzzling, reassuring and disquieting all at once. Did she want to forget it had ever happened? Did she regret what had been said? Did she think he'd been literally stoned out his mind? Or did she want to avoid upsetting the fragile equilibrium they seemed to have reached?

This was why Grissom never took any time off. Everything would just go round and round in his brain, with no end in sight. His hearing, the precarious balance of the team, Sara, of course, then and now and again and again.

He'd watched her change, grow into her own as an investigator, into her thirties. Sara, so tempting, always there, straightforward and mysterious and ultimately dangerous.

He was neither stupid nor socially inept. There was no clear policy on personal relationships at the lab, but he was her immediate supervisor, he was fifteen years older and between the both of them they probably had enough hang-ups and neuroses to crash and burn any relationship.

Of course, talking to her about it could make things easier, clearer, finally putting it all on the table might actually...

It had the potential to blow up in his face and do immediate and irreparable damage. Of course he was terrified. They were both very private, closed off, defensive, with a healthy dose of passive aggressive. Opening that can of worms properly, in one fell swoop, could kill everything.

Grissom groaned and buried his head in a pillow.

xxxxxxxxxx

Mindless tasks allowed her to let her thoughts wander, and filling out forms in triplicate certainly didn't claim all of her attention.

They had too much history, Sara realized. Too many stumbling points where they'd fallen on their face, too many botched attempts at connecting.

Pushing always sent them straight into a wall. Anything explicit crashed.

She'd stayed in Las Vegas because of the fantastic job opportunity; her new supervisor, the adorable scientist who blew her mind on too many occasions, the guy she had a pretty impressive crush on, had just been a bonus.

_The folly, arrogance and optimism of youth. I can't believe I was that young four years ago._

Grissom had been the first and only person who had reached out to her on an occasion that usually made people shake their head or offer inane advice or barely sincere offers to "talk".

He'd told her to get a diversion and then gone and done everything in his power to help where it mattered. He'd disregarded his findings and stayed up all night with the pig and never pried once. It had been the first time she'd felt he might be able to really **get** her, in all the ways that mattered. And for a while, it had been really good. Flirty and playful or brisk, determined, grim; she'd felt like they were in "it" together, whatever "it" was.

_And then we completely lost sight of each other. We lost "us"._

He'd made her feel like whatever their disagreements, at the end of the day, he understood where she was coming from, as if he felt the pull just as much.

She'd fallen in love with what she knew of Grissom, but it had been layered on top of everything else. Romantic love was fragile and difficult and precarious, too fickle for Sara to make it her sole focus.

xxxxxxxxxx

Gasping for air, biting back a scream, Sara crashed out of her nightmare. She was actually surprised it had been that long since the last time her subconscious had taken her out for a spin. With Grissom recuperating, the whole night shift was so busy, she was usually exhausted enough to fall into a dreamless sleep every morning. She could barely remember what she'd been dreaming about; darkness, breathless terror and a feeling of being helpless were all that remained.

Throwing off her pajamas in the bathroom, she felt too many joints complaining. Turning, she stared at her reflection in the mirror above the sink. Being a CSI was not easy on the body. Sure, they all had nice asses and toned leg muscles, but knees, back and spine took a lot of abuse. Not to mention irregular meals of whatever was on hand, erratic sleep schedules, eyestrain, coffee by the gallon...

Sara stared at the mirror and wondered what he saw when he looked at her properly. She wondered whether, now that her body didn't have a twenty five year old's resilience, whether she'd manage to avoid ulcers, arthritis, high cholesterol, hypertension, and which case would put the first grey hairs on her head.

xxxxxxxxxx

Driving home too many hours later, she thought back to when it had all fallen apart.

He'd been jealous and possessive, she'd been defensive and resentful, pushing and provoking at times, convinced that something had to give. Their friendship gave, all right.

It had taken her much too long to recover from the emotional hangover to realize that he was too important, and they were both too old to let romantic potential ruin something that felt comfortable, familiar even quietly beautiful at times. But Grissom had seemed adrift, wrestling with himself over issues deep enough to emotionally expose himself in front of a perfect stranger, and she hadn't known how to reach him. So she'd kept her distance.

She'd thought she had herself together after the lab explosion, but Susanna Kirkwood's death had awakened something monumental, and no amounts of mental discipline, of avoidance helped.

She'd felt dwarfed and alone, about to be eaten alive, and she'd plunged down the rabbit hole. Work, exercise, sleep, or more work. She kept running and working, completely losing touch with her colleagues, with anybody, isolated by this weight threatening to suffocate her.

Nightmares used to have triggers; they became a constant burden, vague and all the more terrifying for it. Ms. Control Freak Sidle would not resort to sleeping pills; she had fallen back on a couple of beers to accompany her last meal before bed and had managed to relax enough for a few hours of peaceful slumber. Work had remained her main outlet and she couldn't have told Grissom why she would have been unable to come in; how would she have even breached the topic when he'd barely waited for her acknowledgment before hanging up? Then Brass had noticed, she'd stopped and there had been no more reprieves.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

TBC


	4. Ch 4

**Disclaimer:** CSI belongs to Zuicker &Co., Alliance Atlantis, and CBS. As far as I'm concerned, Gil Grissom and Sara Sidle should belong to William Peterson and Jorja Fox, but nobody asked me.

**A.N.:** I apologize once again for the time between updates. I had to radically change direction mid scene, because these people just don't do lighthearted. Also, dialogue hates me.

Unbetaed so far, all mistakes are mine.

**Feedback:** Blows my mind every time. Thank you so much. Please, feel free to be brutally honest, I appreciate any criticism.

* * *

Two and a half weeks after Grissom's stint in the ER, Sara had a teenage runaway. Fifteen year old Patricia Mc Coy hadn't shown up at school, clothes and duffel bag were missing. Poor neighborhood, clean but messy house, both parents working too much to earn too barely enough. There was tension between them, but nothing really suspicious. Patricia's diary was missing, nobody knew of a boyfriend, and she didn't have any close friends. 

No amount of zeal or stubbornness could help when there was no evidence to process, no lead to follow. Patricia was gone and Sara couldn't find her. With a heavy heart, she signed her report, and dropped it off at Grissom's desk. Shift had ended less than an hour ago, she was wide awake and starving. Maybe even for company.

Checking her appearance in the rearview mirror, she put on her sunglasses; four days of full immersion in a heartbreaking case had left their imprint. Sara huffed at her inane thoughts and headed to the farmer's market.

xxxxxxxxxx

"Pineapple?"

He blinked. "Sara?" Damn, he hated that… squeak in his voice.

"Hi!" The only thing missing was the cartoonish, self-inflicted forehead smack of mortification. She was so obvious, and the fake Barbie cheer in her voice was just pathetic.

Why was he blinking that much? Was it the daylight, had he been asleep, or…

"Good morning," he said, and kept staring at her. Backlit by the sun, showing up on his doorstep, she was a fantasy come to life.

She looked down at his feet. Generic black socks ... was he going to let her in or not? When had a meal become a Machiavellian undertaking?

Plastering on an even more fake grin on her face, she looked up. And found him staring at her. This was worse than those dreams where she showed up at the lab naked.

"I'm sorry, did I wake you?"

His lips twitched, and he finally seemed of aware of the situation. "Not at all. Please, come in." A smile spread on his face, one she could only reciprocate. "It's good to see you."

Two socially awkward workaholics, grinning at each other. Possibly over pineapple.

_Lift off._

xxxxxxxxxx

"This is really good."

"Thank you. I've never tried French toast and pineapple together, but I like it."

His ribs were doing better, as far as she could tell. The bruises should have faded. His movements had been careful but steady, and if they had caused him any pain, he'd hidden it carefully. Still, she had to ask.

"How are you doing?"

He took a sip of his coffee before answering. "Fine. Back at the lab on Monday."

The implication being, he wasn't cleared to be back in the field.

They fell silent for the rest of the meal, occasionally trading smiles and lingering looks over their mugs.

Sara felt not tense, but charged, like a live wire, coursing with unfamiliar energy. She'd essentially barged into his home bearing fruit and now they were wordlessly flirting over breakfast. All good things, except for the volatility of the situation. Then again, Grissom wasn't avoiding her eyes or changing the nonexistent subject. He looked relaxed and content and Sara just wanted more of this.

"Catherine told me about your case", he said with an even voice, and poured the last of the coffee into her mug.

She froze. They were more comfortable, true, but only as long as they stayed on safe ground. Where was he going with this? She decided to wait him out. "She did?"

He looked at her for long seconds before slowly and deliberately putting his hand on hers. "I'm sorry", he said, his eyes firmly fixed on hers.

Sara had to swallow the lump in her throat. Looking down at their hands, she choked out a heartfelt "Thank you". She couldn't think of anything else to say.

Grissom carefully disengaged and moved towards the fridge. "More coffee?"

"Please." She watched him as he was rummaging around his kitchen. Every movement precise and unhurried, there was no evidence of tension in the line of his back. Patricia was still gone, but Sara felt almost at peace.

_This is why I'm still here._

"Have you heard about this study they're doing in Germany?" she asked, falling back on familiar territory.

"Interesting, but inherently flawed", he retorted, sitting back down.

She smiled as he expanded on his point of view.

xxxxxxxxxx

Half an hour later, at the verge of feeling drowsy, she decided to take her leave.

"Thank you for breakfast."

"Thank you for the company. We should do this again."

"Maybe we should", she answered, her light tone mirroring his.

Opening the door for her, Grissom leaned against it, invading her space. "I'll call you this weekend."

He wasn't touching her, but the look in his eyes was tender and made Sara feel warm on the inside. Flashing him a parting smile, she put on her sunglasses and turned towards her car. Things were looking up.

xxxxxxxxxx

Grissom closed the door on a sigh. What were they doing? Were they doing anything? _What am **I** doing?_ They'd spent a quiet hour sharing a meal and enjoying each other's company, the strain of the past few years gone. He hadn't felt pressured by her presence alone, and she'd seemed more relaxed than ever. _Good things are a rare commodity. Hold on to them._


End file.
